Lou Roth
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Leith 101 preview, 2.6k words
🕑 Added 2023-05-30 02:52:40 +0000 UTCYou press the button for ground floor, hoping a walk around Riven might clear your head. The silent glide of the platform and the faint whispers of leaves brushing against it as you pass bushy sections isn't enough to distract you. Your thoughts drift to Leith, who wasn't just your lover/friend but your partner. The day you lost them felt like the world fell into a twilight zone where nothing but death could bring you relief.
You've been trapped in a cycle of guilt and regret ever since, feeling that your eternal life doing nothing but menial tasks is a suitable punishment for not being able to save Leith, or the rest of your team. The shades of those you once called family hang over your shoulders like phantom limbs, moaning their disappointment in your ear and sending spikes of pain through your spine.
You feel like a failure, a crime against everything you once stood for. You're only here to suck up to the clergy, and it was the butterfly's first wing beat to sign that contract for the transfusion that led to the eventual death of everything you held dear. You curse it now, but at the time... You were forced to, no other choice but- the excuses are many, and they bring no relief.
*page_break
As you walk, you find yourself drawn to the harbor. You used to love coming here, walking along the boardwalk and watching the low, cayak-like boats with steaming huts placed on them come and go, their stewards navigating with tall poles leveraged on the craggy surroundings of the sinkhole. They still look the same now, though some have steam engines puttering at the back of the boat instead of a man. You try, but you can't attest the feeling of hostility to just the technological advancement of the waterborne merchants. Everything feels different. The water is dark and cold, the air heavy with the scent of salt and decay. You feel a deep sense of melancholy wash over you, a sense of loss and grief that you can't shake. You turn away from the harbor, ducking in below the shade of the tavern as it sits nestled between the sturdiest roots reaching from the stem of the tree.
You wander aimlessly, your feet carrying you past the small patch of grass you once referred to as to the hidden courtyard, and into Riven proper. You pass by shops and houses, people and animals, the scents of laundry and strung-up fish fermenting in the sun, but you barely register any of it. Consumed by thoughts of them in a way you rarely indulge anymore, now unable to resist. You see their teeth, flashing in the sun, the dimple of their cheeks as you told a bad joke. You hear their laughter, even as it springs from another persons mouth.
#Turn left, towards the open road with merchants.
[i]This is new[/i]— as you turn, the bustling sound of a market greets you with open arms. The street, as wide as the river's mouth, is a riot of colors: from the bright banners hanging overhead to the stacks of vividly hued fabrics and the handmade lanterns that dangle from every stall, clanking together, not so much giving off light as they are collecting it, harvesting and storing it in the colored panes, reflecting back a confetti of color onto the people that pass.
You can smell the sweet scent of baked goods wafting from a nearby bakery, pretzels and sourdough bread. The rich aroma of roasting meats comes from another vendor's cart, the fumes of live fire puffing in clouds that drift until they disperse. Colorful characters flit in and out of the crowds, haggling for bargains and chatting with friends. There are elderly women with deeply-lined faces, their hair tied back in colorful kerchiefs, and young girls with bouncing curls and bright eyes. Men with weathered hands and broad shoulders shout out their wares, hawking everything from woven baskets to handmade jewelry.
In the distance, you can hear the faint sound of a wooden flute, and you follow the music to its source.
There, on a small stage set up at the edge of the market, a young musician plays a haunting tune, his fingers dancing nimbly over the instrument. A cat, with fur the shade of the ocean, weaves between his bent knees before it settles its head on his booted feet.
This is all so new to you, a far cry from the sleepy town you once knew, now transformed into a bustling place full of life and energy.
#Turn right, towards the towering stacks of wonky houses.
You can't help the sense of nostalgia that washes over you, brisk as the first day of spring. The stacks of wonky houses tower above you as you stroll, leaning against each other for support; haphazardly piled on top of one another, stretching towards the sky like a teetering stack of cards. Ivy and creeping vines twist around the walls, the windows are mismatched, some round, others square or triangular, and they are adorned with colorful shutters and flower boxes overflowing with blooms. It all, in its entirety, seem to tell the story of your hometown's history; cobbled together and at risk of falling with a particularly strong gust of wind, but doted upon, loved into permanence by the people that devote their lives to it.
You remember playing hide and seek in these very alleys with your childhood friends, running up and down these crooked stairs. As a teen, you helped the community raise the bones that hold the floors at a somewhat straight angle, placing the planks that would become the weathered walls that face the street.
As you walk deeper into the maze of walkways, you notice some things have changed. There are so many people here.
The ones that share their home with their wares still call out to you, but their faces are unfamiliar.
The streets are wider, and some of the buildings have been replaced with newer, more modern structures. The familiar landmarks of your youth, like the row of whispering birch separating the eastern and western districts, have disappeared, replaced by a slip of street with corner shops and no more than four bustling taverns.
Despite the changes, you can still feel the beating heart of your hometown. The spirit of community and resilience is still alive, even after two centuries. Although you walk hesitantly, like a stranger, your heart pulls; wanting to reconnect with the place that shaped you.
#Keep going forward, towards the fountains and the embassy.
The landscape begins to shift away from the huddled corners of Riven's living areas, and your eyes are drawn to the grandeur of the fountains ahead. Water gushes from the mouths of carved stone creatures, sparkling in the sunlight and creating a gentle mist that cools the air around you. The dazzling display of water droplets dances in the light, casting rainbow-hued reflections in the air.
Beyond the fountains, you see the imposing silhouette of the embassy, a structure unlike anything you've seen in your hometown before. Its walls are made of a strange, dark stone that glows softly in the afternoon sun. Guards dressed in strange, foreign garb stand watch at the entrance, their expressions stern and unyielding.
You notice a group of people gathered near the fountains, laughing and chatting. Their clothes are of a finer quality than most of the town's residents, and they speak in accents that are unfamiliar to your ears.
*if (moved_on="no")
You draw your chin towards your chest, shielding away from curious glances, wishing you could cover the entirety of the regret that weighs on your features. The surroundings falls silent to you as you focus on the eyes that land on you, the whispers that rise and fall like waves crashing against cliffs, and although you can't make out the words, you can feel the judgment in the air.
*if (moved_on = "trying")
You straighten your spine and try to push down the waves of emotion that threaten to consume you. Reminding yourself that you came back here to face your past and make something of a new epilogue, a softer one, no matter how difficult it may be. As you walk towards the unknown, your steps are hesitant but determined. The unfamiliar sights and sounds overwhelm your senses, but you steel yourself and continue forward. Come what may.
*if (moved_on="yes")
You take in everything, the fluent movement of your eyes passing over every crooked cobble-stone and every wonky house, and the memories come tumbling out before you. It all echoes with the fact that this is where you belong, more keenly than your rugged house by the bank of the river. A sense of deep longing for the past to come back arrives; for it to be here, now; it lodges in your chest like a door-stop. And like a door wedged open, it invites the new, fresh sense of pride for the town of Riven and all that it has become.
As you wander through the maze of memory, lost in thought and lost to emotion, an old woman appears beneath your raised gaze just in time for you to halt your step and take in the sight before you. She's hunched over, her back curved like a question mark, emptying a bowl of leftovers for a pack of well-cared for weasels that squirm at her feet, excited for the meal. You had nearly stumbled over her, walked right past with a stumbling step— but you know decency when it calls for you.
You clear your throat to apologize. When she looks up, her eyes sparkle with a mischievous twinkle that belies her age. "Oh, you young
*if (man="man")
men, the world at your stomping feet, never heeding—"
*if (man="woman")
women, the world kneeling to kiss your knave, never heeding—"
*if (man="person")
people, the world aghast at your audacity, never heeding—"
It stops you in your tracks. Her eyes widen with recognition as she stares at you intently, the sentence falling from her mouth at the same speed that her jaw drops. She searches your face for signs of recognition, although it has already dawned on her by the way her stance changes, and the bowl clatters to the ground from her lax fingers. The weasels rejoice.
"$!{pcname}?"
You stand rooted, suddenly feeling so very young. So fragile, so tender; you might fall apart. Or into a salute, as it were. Old habits die hard.
"Is it really you?" she whispers, a step taken towards you, her lip quivering. After staring at you, her mouth moving silently, her voice surfaces again, hoarse with emotion.
"Have you truly returned after— after all these years?"
You nod slowly, unable to speak. The woman doesn't step forward as much as she throws herself at you, and envelops you in a warm embrace, her arms banding
*if (height="tall")
against your waist. Her crooked nose digs into the flesh of your abdomen, through your ${clothes} clothing, and her wail of disbelief reaches there too. Your raised hands slowly fall to her shoulders, feeling the rigid bones of age poking through the knitted fabric of her cardigan.
*if (height="average")
around your arms, keeping them against your body like a wrapped parcel. She feels delicate and soft, but her grip is strong, her body warm and comforting against yours. You close your eyes, but for a moment; letting it linger, feeling as though time has stopped just for the two of you.
*if (height="short")
tightly around your waist, her head buried in your chest. You feel her small frame tremble with emotion, and you hold her close, feeling a sense of protectiveness wash over you. You can't help but smile as memories flood back, and you realize that even after all these years, some things never change.
She's holding you so tightly, as if afraid you might disappear again. When she finally parts, her hand wipes at her nose and she straightens her clothes. Your heart lurches.
"Oh my child, how we have missed you," she says, her hands trembling as they grasp for yours, just to hold. "We thought you had gone forever. Died. Disappeared. We even held a vigil— there's a memoryweave with your name on it, oh, I have to remove it now, you know— I fought for the best branch besides Leith's, the one that sees sun all year round. The druid of noon services, Olgrif, that's the one, gave me a headache over it, and sent it to the parlor of— oh and you know I could get Leith to get it down and forgo the process entirely, the way they have a way with climbing— are they… back, too?" I know I could use the—" Her lip quivers again as her bright eyes search yours, with an optimism you know intimately.
#I place a hand on her shoulder. "They are still gone, I'm afraid."
You place a comforting hand on her shoulder, but the words are heavy on your tongue. You can see the disappointment in her eyes, but she nods in acceptance nonetheless.
#I barely hold it together. "No, Inga. Leith is still dead."'
You feel your composure slipping as you speak, barely able to get the words out. Inga's expression crumples and you see her wipe at her eyes with her sleeve.
#I draw her into an embrace to hide my sobbing. "Leith is dead."
The emotions overwhelm you and you pull Inga into a tight embrace. You can feel her trembling against you, but she doesn't resist as you let yourself cry.
#I look away, clenching my jaw. "This isn't the place to talk of the dead."
You shift your gaze away, unable to bear the intensity of Inga's stare. You clench your jaw, fighting against the emotions that threaten to bubble up inside you. "This isn't the place to talk of the dead," you say firmly.
"Oh look at us," she snivels. "Come, child, or do you have another place to be? My home is just around the bend, there's warm tea and freshly baked pastries. You must come, eat."
"[i]Inga[/i]," you whisper, wavering, ready to politely refuse the woman Leith had seen as a second mother.
She drags you forth before you have breath in your lungs to say no, and now it would be more than rude. You resign yourself to your fate, following her excited leap onto the sidewalk, and you think; things could truly be worse.
*page_break
The sun climbs the stairs the opposite way of your steps, Inga's labored breath teasing the dustmotes in the orange shafts of light that precede her.
"Just two more flights, dear."
You mumble behind her, far more worried about her stamina than your own. She teeters at the edge of every step, ready to fall backwards, before her frail hand grasps the railing and she hauls herself forward, only for the whole thing to repeat.
"You do this every day?" You take a step behind her, ready to cushion her fall with your body.
"Oh, yes. Keeps the heart, ah," she hauls herself forward, "pumping!"
"Mh."
This maddening cycle has your heart fraying at the edges by the time you reach her floor.
"There!" She hollers, and though her breath is heavy as an anchor, she beams at you and you can't think of anything to say. The look of astonishment on your face must be enough.
She unlocks no less than seven heavy bolts, and draws the rickety door open.
"Harlowe? I brought company!"
A snarling grunt reaches you as you two stuff yourself in the narrow hallway.
"So you best be wearing privates!"
A shuffling noise is heard. A newspaper, rustling. And then a drawn out, gnarly cough. And the finale: the creak of a chair, well worn, the flick of a lighter, and a grunt of satisfaction.
You stare at the ceiling, unsure how to fit in this space. [i]How on earth did I end up here?[/i] Then again, that was something you used to ask often, when Leith was the one to drag you astray.
Inga winks at you, already halfway into the kitchen. "Have a seat, dear. Maybe the balcony? I'll bring us something to nibble on."
